


End of Pain, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Alex hurts, Mulder comforts -- a rooftop at 3 a.m. and everything quiet all around.





	End of Pain, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The End of Pain by Spike

28 October 1998  
Disclaimer: "These X-Files characters belong to the X-Files folks, not me. I wrote this story for pleasure, not profit." -- from Spike's Big Copyright Book of Duh!  
Spoilers: none  
Summary: Alex hurts, Mulder comforts -- a rooftop at 3 a.m. and everything quiet all around.  
Archive: Yes please. Just let me know and keep my name attached.  
Rating: R for dark theme and talk of sex and violence  
Author's Note: Angst-o-rama: nothing more, nothing less. Not betaed -- no-one's fault but mine.  
Feedback: Gawd, yes! Anywhere, anytime. Or private, send it to Spike at <>

* * *

"The End of Pain"  
by Spike  
10/98

Alex let his eyes fall shut, let the gun slide out of his mouth. The muzzle traced a spit-slick path under his lower lip. Mulder kept on talking, soft and low:

"...saw you as another version of herself -- a sexual manipulator. Predator even. Trouble in tight jeans..."

Profiling him. Mulder's way of buying time, he guessed. Hoping that the urge would pass. Like the urge would ever pass. But in a wierd way it wasn't bad. Was right tonight to sit on the low, brick parapet of the abandoned movie house, cradling steel and listening to Mulder reel out the story of his life. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof -- good enough for a life made up so much of lies. 

 Something right about Mulder's voice, too -- flat as a Pueblo Indian. And wasn't this what the Pueblo did when someone died? Chanted out their life so that the universe would know exactly who had left the world? 

Or was he making that up? Mulder could tell him, he supposed, but he really didn't want to know if it was otherwise. Let this, at least, be right tonight. Let it be enough to let him go. He slipped the muzzle back into his mouth; tongued the bore lazily, tasting oil. Impatience wormed under his skin 

//Get on with it, Mulder. Get to the fucking end.//

 but Mulder had found a groove in his teenage years, was lingering. 

"...too pretty for your own good. Your father was military, right? Army. He wouldn't like that. Beat it out of you, maybe. Or maybe just ignored..."

//Aw, Jesus, Mulder -- adolescence was a bitch for everyone -- move on // 

*He* certainly had. Hadn't thought about the base in years. The Albequerque sun, little box houses, the distant 'ho' and 'hum' of seargeants giving orders, the muted crack of rifle fire...

"...blowjobs to Daddy's troops behind the barracks..." No, that wasn't right. Alex frowned.

"Artillery range." he corrected, letting the gun slide out of his mouth.

"What...?" Mulder looked stunned.

"I gave blowjobs up on the artillery range, not the barracks. A little more privacy out there."

// because-- you know -- you wouldn't want the Colonel to run across one of his nice, right boys with a cock stuck down his fag son's throat Might break his fucking heart.//

The artillery range had been a perfect world apart. Dark. Quiet. Romantic too, in a way; down on his knees in the damp grass under the stars. All those hard bodies, the smell of gun oil and cordite in the air. And every time, wondering if this was what it felt like to be loved. Yeah, loved. They loved him good those right, white army boys. 

And how many had there been that lovelorn August night? Five? Fifteen? 

//...holding him, turning him -- face in the dirt and they split him open like unripe fruit and spat on him when they were done...//

Oh God -- done. To be done. Gone. Quiet in the head. To find an end to this fucking, fucking, motherfucking pain...His hand clenched convulsively on the gun and he slid his thumb over the hammer, cocked it. Felt the tick of the bullet sliding into the chamber at the corner of his mouth.

"...Alex?" Mulder's voice, from a long way away through the fog. Then Mulder's hand on his knee and the sudden warm rush of breath against his face: the press of soft lips on his lips. The gun between them.

He opened his eyes. Wide hazel eyes looked back -- way too close and glitter-bright. Mulder kissed him for real then -- soft mouth opening against his mouth; tentative slip of a curious tongue across his bottom lip to the blank place where the gun barrel rested. It made him smile.

"Want to go together, lover?" he murmured into Mulder's open mouth.

"Okay," Mulder whispered back and, still kissing and kissing, he brought his hand up, gently wrapped his fingers around Alex's hand. And then just as gently pushed the gun to the side and down. 

To his own dull amazement, Alex didn't -- couldn't -- fight as Mulder pried his fingers from the trigger and the grip. Instead he let the gun go, heard the click as Mulder eased the hammer back in place, the clatter as he tossed it to the side. Then Mulder wrapped warm arms around him, pulled him close, still kissing, kissing -- gentle kisses like angel wings; like sweet, juicy cherries fed to him by hand from a white china bowl...

//cracking, fracturing like bone under a booted foot//

...and Christ it *hurt* to cry this hard -- to let go long, sick, wrenching sobs that tore their way up from the rubble where his murdered fifteen-year-old heart lay buried. Where the stone walls he'd built around the grave were shattering, the cornerstones of his foundation falling in upon themselves.

And yet somehow, there was Mulder holding him together while he cried, whispering above the storm. "Shh...shhh, lover..." and "We're going together, okay? Wherever you need to go..." 

\--End--


End file.
